


Some battles you just can't win

by OliveBranch_10



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Anorexia, Background Relationships, Backstory, Bulimia, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jealous Illya, M/M, Mild Language, Mildly Dubious Consent, Period-Typical Homophobia, Psychological Torture, Sad, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Torture, gay therapy, see notes for trigger warnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-04 03:21:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10982304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OliveBranch_10/pseuds/OliveBranch_10
Summary: The art of losing isn’t hard to master;So many things seem filled with the intentTo be lost that their loss is no disaster...Napoleon Solo was known for his suave looks, his smooth tongue and his styled life. No one would ever know that he was not born in luxury. The little boy was born into a back alley in New York, between the rats and beggars to a single mother. He remembers his mother clenching her jaw and kissing his forehead before sending him away, the strange men in his house and the everlasting empty stomach. His quick hands and his mother’s good looks are the only things that could bring food on the table those days.(chapter 3: Saturday 3 June)





	1. Mother loved me when the world was cruel

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS A SAD BACKSTORY WITH NAPOLEON.
> 
> there is a explicit focus on the eating disorder Napoleon suffers based on my own experience. if that triggers you pls take care of yourself and skip this fic.
> 
> also contains dubious content because the character can't 100% refuse and his mental state isn't okay.

_The art of losing isn’t hard to master;_

_So many things seem filled with the intent_

_To be lost that their loss is no disaster._

_._

_._  
Napoleon Solo was known for his suave looks, his smooth tongue and his styled life. No one would ever know that he was not born in luxury. The little boy was born into a back alley in New York, between the rats and beggars to a single mother. He remembers his mother clenching her jaw and kissing his forehead before sending him away, the strange men in his house and the everlasting empty stomach. His quick hands and his mother’s good looks are the only things that could bring food on the table those days.

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When he’s seven, his mother marries one of her clients. The man adopts Napoleon as a son. While he will forever stay Solo in honour of his mother, who holds her head so proud that no man could ever make her look down. His new father is nice and caring. He tosses a ball with Napoleon on Sunday, walks with his mother and doesn’t deny them much. There is no hunger but the memory clings to Napoleon and his mother.

She feeds him, turns the little twig boy into a healthy one. She doesn’t stop feeding him even when she can softly pinch the fat on his cheeks. She kisses the top of his head and gives him some chocolate.

 

The boys at school are not that gentle. They poke his soft belly and hiss fat in his hair. Take his sandwich because _‘You don’t look like you need it Nappy’_ and they all laugh. He feels hungry again that day and it terrifies him so much he overeats at dinner and throws up all over himself. He asks his mother if she thinks he’s fat. The word feels foreign in the mouth of the ten-year-old and they shock his mother. No she whispers to him, _‘No baby, you’re just momma’s chubby boy’._ He accepts the biscuit and sleeps.

 

After a year of merciless teasing by his classmates Napoleon begs his mother if he can switch schools, the idea of returning after summer terrifies him. He’s almost eleven, his stepfather says, you can’t change schools anymore. He storms off upset, stopping at the kitchen he grabs two cookies and chews on them angrily. He can hear them talking softly and he wishes he didn’t. “Napoleon is getting bullied, Tom we can hardly leave him there.” His stepfather scoffs. “Elena, sweetheart I know you love him but you’re son is getting fat.” Napoleon can’t stop the tears from falling out and without realising he stuffs the second cookie in his mouth. Only when he’s halfway up the stairs does he notice.

_It scares him how much he needs it._

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It’s the spring of 1942 when Beth says no when he asks if she’d like to go to the pictures with him. He can hear Johnny snicker in the back when he’s trying to blink back tears. “You’re way to fat to fit in the chairs there Nappy-boy.” He can hear others laugh but it sounds far away.

 

He remembers that Mary sticks her finger down her throat to throw up. It’s to fit in the dress she got for her fourteenth birthday. It’s a memory that pops up when he’s shopping with his mother. She says it’s because he’s growing up into a tall handsome fellow but he knows its because he can hardly close his trousers. He eats dinner that night and after that he stands in front of the toilet for over an hour, his hands shake and he can feel sweat pool in the small of his back. When he finally tries nothing happens. Only after the third try does it work.

He feels awful but, he glances at the buttons on his shirt stretched tight, it’s worth it.

_“Fatty, fatty, fatty” his dreams chant at him. “Ugly, ugly, ugly” his classmates hiss. “No girl wants to date a pig.” They whisper._

 

He wakes up agreeing, and dreams it again the next night, and the next, and the next, and the –

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It works for a while, he hit another growth spurt and he’s been trying to eat less. Yet all his success seems to fall into nothing when his momma becomes sick and the doctors tell him she won’t be getting better. He’s angry and Napoleon doesn’t know where to go so he runs. _He is out of breath after three minutes and the nagging voice in his head say its because he’s fat._ He roams in the city and he steals a man’s wallet because he still has quick fingers. No matter how clumsy he is in this fat and strange body, he will never lose the tricks that kept them alive.

 

He sees an army recruitment centre and he clenches his fist. _They won’t hire you_ the voice tells him, _fat boys will only get in the way_. He enters the building.

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He gets recruited and tells no one. At midnight he just steals his birth papers, kisses his mom goodbye, leaves a message and runs away.

 

_(I can’t fix you mom so I’ll help others)_

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Napoleon doesn’t know why he expected the training camps to be different. He hoped for friendship, for them to unite because they had the same goal. He pukes up his lunch and clenches his eyes close, just to forget the words.

 

“Can’t keep up fatty?” – “Come on son my Granny is faster and she’s dead.” – “ Don’t let him too close to the food Janice, he might eat it all when you’re not looking.” – “Fatty.

 

Fatty.

 

Fatty.  
  
_Fatty._ ”

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The nurse compliments him, tells him he lost a lot of weight. He preens under her attention and skips lunch to celebrate. Even though he can keep up with everyone now the group he’s with still doesn’t see him like the nurse does. _Hey fatty, catch!_ One says, the others mock him. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t been called by his own name in months.

 

He celebrates his fifteenth birthday throwing up.

 

 

 

They leave the training camps on 7th of august 1944 and travel straight into France. He is terrified in the plane and all he can think of is his mother.

 

Operation Overlord was nearly done when they arrived, so while they didn’t get blown to bits by Nazi’s trying to leave a boat they get shot at a lot when trying to free a city. On the 25th they free Paris and they get the night off. The others go out drinking but he wanders the street, avoids the party and stumbles into the Louvre. He remembers going to the art shows in New York with his mother and with Tom. There are a few pieces of art left, most of it cleared by the government and other parts by the Nazi’s. He eyes the small Roman coins left behind and without thinking he takes them.

 

It’s the beginning of his second life.

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He tries to forget the war. He only remembers the 6th of October when a letter from home told him that his home was no more. Three weeks later he gets a letter that Tom has passed, hit by a driver who lost control because of the snow. It surprises him how much it hurts to lose him, his stepfather who was nice but never too close with. A man whom loved Napoleon’s mother and accepted him as part of the deal. The guys from his platoon see him crying and, Ronson maybe or Jackin makes a joke. “Come on Fatty why you crying ey?” Napoleon clenches his fist and feels his feet slip in the mud when he stands up, ready to leave. “Ey Fatty I asked something.”

 

Napoleon sees red.

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The Bernini is small but he recognizes it immediately. Stolen by a Nazi from Italy and completely at Napoleon’s mercy. His reputation precedes him and the baroness seems quite taken with him. Very taken. She doesn’t seem to understand no.

 

 

 

Her advances leave him reeling and he feels split in two. Part of him is ecstatic that he, this ugly fat boy got the attention of a pretty person and another part of him feels disgusted. He stays outside long enough for the rain to soak him and he showers even longer.

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When the war seems to be ending he gets careless. His reputation gets bigger but he’s smart. Abandoned houses and estates he buys with the money his family left him and with the art he sells. He makes them safe houses, stashes his art there and he covers up his tracks. The only rush he feels is when a heist works out. He knows exactly how to run when the army finds out.

 

And when they finally do, fatty is long gone.

 

He feels alive for the first time. With more money to know what to do with he feels the urge to buy himself ice-cream. Instead he throws up his meagre breakfast and walks in a tailor shop and walks out with six new suits. _Can’t eat too much now Fatty_ the voice whispers. _Would be a waste to get too fat for those lovely suits._

 

He doesn’t eat dinner.

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He sleeps in more beds than he can count, traces scratch marks with his own fingers and tells them to pull his hair. He finds out what words make people tick, what makes them tremble and what makes people fall apart under his hands. He feels powerful.

 

_He showers so much his skin feels raw._

He does so many push-ups and pull-ups his muscles tremble even when he relaxes, he grabs the carrot while he craves a complete dinner and he ignores the light-headedness during a break in. He is _fine._

 

 

 

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He knows some people are chasing him when a lady he seduced an hour ago nearly slams his lights out with a lamp and he runs away and regrets the loss of his new suit. The thrill of being chased gives way to fatigue and one might say fear. He feels the fear deep within his bones and for the first time in four years he eats like he wants to.

 

An hour later his body rebels against all the sugar in his system and he is sick for three days.

 

 _You see,_ the voice hisses, _you’re ruining everything. Not even your own body likes you._

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He managed to escape them, a task force from four different countries twice before he fucks up. He takes the train to Vienna but he somehow, and he will forever hate himself a little for this, sits next to an agent. She’s off duty but she recognizes him and pages her supervisors while he’s watching her bags because she fucking asked him.

 

It all goes relatively quick. They jump him and all he can do is struggle but it doesn’t seem to help much. _He’s just not strong enough._


	2. the pauses in our life seem to last a lifetime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He Makes the jokes about Napoleons quick hands and his smooth words the most. Calls him a no good pretty face and smiles in a way that isn’t genuine at all. It’s his fault that Sanders deems Napoleon good enough for the honeypot missions in the first place.
> 
> He’s not sure whether to be proud or to be appalled. Apparently he looks a bit of both. Johnson and Broke smirk at him. ‘Go on’ they say, ‘do what you’re good at.’
> 
> He swallows the dryness in his throat away and grins the cocky grin all the ladies and fellas love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING
> 
> SHOCK THERAPY ANTI GAY THOUGHTS
> 
> SELF HATRED / HARM
> 
> EATING DISORDER

Sentenced without much of a trail to speak of. He committed the foulest crime trying to make profit on war and so on. He stopped listening to the guards after that. All he wants is to sleep but the questioning keeps him awake.

 

He hasn’t eaten in two days. They think they’re punishing him, if only they knew.

 

The judge that looked at his case gives him fifteen years. He groans and smirks at the irony. He went and joined the army at fifteen, who knew that number would hunt him in his later days. He thinks of fifteen kilos more or fifteen less.

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His cell is a grimy and his roommate is old. The cell is big enough for him to keep his rigid training because he won’t slack. Not here, not ever. The prison nurse called him muscled but on the skinny side. He isn’t sure what to make of that, it’s probably because she is used to those big guys he saw on his way in.

The big guys like to push him around a lot. They don’t try much but he doesn’t let his guard down yet and soon enough they corner in when he’s walking to his cell. Sneering at him, hissing that he would only look pretty enough if he would just drop to his knees. He thinks of doing it, just to let go, he knows how to please a man. He can just forget who he is. In the end he doesn’t. Somehow there is still pride left in him.

 

He breaks an arm, smashes someone’s teeth out and bruises some ribs. He’s put in solitarily confinement. He likes it better than the cell he shares. There is no noise here and while the guards call him names there is no fear of being forced to his knees.

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After three weeks a short and ordinary man stands in front of his cell waving a CIA badge.

 

He sounds like the voice in Napoleon’s head.

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He takes the deal.

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He’s a patriot once more Sanders mutters but it doesn’t feel like that. The others sneer at him. He’s the thief without any options, the con man with quick fingers and a silver tongue. It’s a hard reputation to live up to, especially because it’s not really Napoleon.

 

Somehow he lives up to it.

 

He pukes less often than he likes so he just avoids food altogether. Sanders is always scaring him, the team is always watching him. Like eagles and he never forgets that he is their prey if he fucks up.

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It’s Johnson who mocks him the most. Makes the jokes about Napoleons quick hands and his smooth words the most. Calls him a no good pretty face and smiles in a way that isn’t genuine at all. It’s his fault that Sanders deems Napoleon good enough for the honeypot missions in the first place.

 

He’s not sure whether to be proud or to be appalled. Apparently he looks a bit of both. Johnson and Broke smirk at him. ‘Go on’ they say, ‘do what you’re good at.’

 

He swallows the dryness in his throat away and grins the cocky grin all the ladies and fellas love.

 

His first honeypot mission is a success.

 

So is his second and third and fourth…

 

And

 

And

 

And

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It’s after his fourth year and a honeypot mission later (he lost count) that he walks back to the flat the team made the base of operations that it all goes to hell. His mark liked to feed him chocolate and dutiful Napoleon accepted every bite.

 

He starts puking three blocks away.

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When he enters the flat on wobbly legs, he sees that hell isn’t over yet. The slideshow is on. He wants to leave immediately and vanish into thin air because the slide staring back at him is his own face. _His own fucking fat face._

‘Heard you were in the army Solo, so I had to check that out.’ Johnson snarls at him. ‘They called you fatty there.’ It’s not a question but he replies to it, grins and shrugs. Hides his hurt. It annoys Johnson and he looks ready to pummel Napoleon to death but Sanders intervenes.

 

Napoleon isn’t grateful because Sanders allowed the humiliation in the first place.

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‘Can’t be fat if you gotta do honeypot eh Solo’

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‘Wouldn’t eat that if I were you.’

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‘Looking a bit chub there Nappy.’

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He stops eating at the office, drinks, drinks and drinks and drinks but never eats. No matter how long he has to stay.

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The only joy he finds these days are his side jobs. Whenever he feels the grip Sanders has on him loosen he sneaks out. He smiles at paintings, whispers at statues and draws figures in the tapestry.

 

He finds safe havens and safe houses. He comes back to life only when planning his freedom. He counts the days and the calories.

 

He dreams about Van Gogh and Michelangelo. Of them showing him how to see beauty and how to treasure it. He has nightmares of Dante’s inferno.

 

The devil wears Sanders face.

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He faints on a mission.

 

 

 

 

When he wakes up, he realizes that he’s still at the same place.

 

_No one came for you._

_Poor, poor fatty._

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Sometimes the job made him become the highlight of the room, it also made him slowly disappear.

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A mission hospitalizes him. The doctor scolds Sanders for letting an agent who is not ready for the field in it. It’s the first time Napoleon sees his handler surprised in seven years.

 

‘He is severely underweight.’ The doctor whispers harshly when they enter his room and Napoleon who has never lost his curiosity streak feigns sleep. ‘I am surprised that he managed to function at all.’ The hum Sanders makes sounds as if finally noticed whatever the doctor pointed out to him.

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They put him on a diet.

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Sanders sits in front of him and stares holes in his head. ‘Eat. I have no use of an agent who can’t function.’ The implication of his jail sentence is loud and clear.

 

He eats.

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He sports more, drinks more and eats more. He covers all the mirrors in his apartment and fills his wine cabinets.

 

Fills his stomach with whiskey and longs for chocolate. He eats the carrot and cries, wishes for his mother. He dreams about Johnny from middle school, about Rackin from the army and of the nameless agent who made an end to his life.

 

They all look at him with dead eyes like boys did when he found them dead in a ditch during the war. They all whisper to him until all he hears is: _Fatty. Ugly. Stupid. Fatty._

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The one time he throws up because of a nightmare and Broke catches him.

He snitches to Sanders.

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It’s the alcohol according to Sanders, what made him puke. The others nod and glare at Napoleon who still has the wine on his breath. He nods and grins.

 

Whenever he wants to throw up, he goes out.

 

Seduces all that is pretty. All that breaths into his direction.

 

As long as he can conquer all to his bed, he is still pretty enough, good enough, _thin enough._

_Fatty_ the voice whispers with every bite he takes. _Fatty, fatty, fatty boy._

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The doctor slaps Napoleon on his shoulder and he seems pleased. Napoleon can’t figure out why he would be, it couldn’t be a good thing but the doctor says congratulations son you’ve gained enough weight for the field.

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He throws away the sandwich they gave him, now that he no longer has the doctor to visit he can stop eating.

 

It feels like a relief.

 

But he sleeps with hunger gnarling at his stomach and the need to just _eat, eat, eat_ is back.

 

He looks for a fight in a back alley and finds one.

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Sanders doesn’t seem care that his quick fingers look bruised as long as he does his job.

 

His hands shake all the time unless he work, his fingers find the calm and every vault opens under his hands like magic. People fall to their knees for him and he accepts all the drinks they offer him.

The drinking numbs him even more.

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Napoleon hates himself for not seeing that the CIA wouldn’t accept his actions, his desires and his coping. He is called to Sanders office on a plain Tuesday. He expects a mission report.

 

He gets a life sentence.

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They tell him that men like him are sick, abominations. He needs to be cured, to be fixed. The peep in his ears gets too loud to even hear Sanders.

 

To accept the therapy would mean he’d be cured of his life sentence and they would keep him at the fifteen-year.

 

He accepts the deal and tries to look grateful.

 

The bile in his throat doesn’t feel like a victory this time.

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The therapist tells him that the urge to be around men comes from a missing father figure in his youth. He needs to locate that loss and force it out of himself.

 

By forcing it out they mean setting him on fire.

 

The fire burns in his veins, the clippings are loaded with electricity and the humming drowns out his own screaming.

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The therapist seems pleased. He tells Napoleon that crying is the first step to self-discovery.

 

He shakes the demon and schedules another appointment.

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After four months they declare him fixed enough for the field. Every half-year they have him visit to make sure he doesn’t fall back onto old habits.

 

Napoleon learned his lesson.

 

There are some temptations not even he can have.

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It’s almost ten years.

It feels like a lifetime.

He feels older than his years. He feels like a ghost.

~~Older than his papers, not even those are real.~~

 

They sent him to Berlin.


End file.
